


Third Time's the Charm

by Corvidology



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Drugged Confessions, First Kiss, First kiss with a man, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pine4pine 2020 exchange, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26412565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/pseuds/Corvidology
Summary: For the Pine4Pine 2020 challenge.Reese slowly comes to realize Finch is more than a friend.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 12
Kudos: 81
Collections: pine4pine 2020





	Third Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rudigersmooch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudigersmooch/gifts).



When so few people knew of your existence and experience had taught you to be suspicious of everyone's motives, trust was a long time coming. He still wasn't sure at what point he'd come to trust Finch without question. Even more remarkable was Finch's trust in him, given that he knew everything about John. Who in their right mind would do that? Yet Finch was always in his right mind and showed evidence of that trust every day. 

And yet, there was one area where Finch hesitated to trust him and with good reason, so it hardly came as a surprise when Finch told him about Anthea Dowman's number coming up and his resulting research, he'd insisted on accompanying him on the mission. There'd been very little information, except for a few visits from the police due to neighbors making domestic disturbance calls. In each case, Anthea had appeared unharmed and refused to file charges against her husband, Ron, saying they just liked to play TV crime shows loudly. 

So that's how John had ended up breaking into the Dowman's apartment with Finch in tow, despite his best efforts to leave him safely behind at the library. They'd been checking the apartment, John examining the paperwork on the desk in the bedroom and Finch installing bugs and a camera in the living room when they'd heard raised voices coming from just outside the front door. 

"Damn it, Anthea, couldn't you try, just for once, to get along with my mother?"

It was too late to make it down the fire escape in the living room with Finch in tow so he'd waved Finch into the bedroom, backing into the linen closet and dragging Finch in after him. He'd ended up with his back wedged up against the shelves and Finch plastered along his front as the Dowmans, argument still raging, walked into the apartment and straight back into the bedroom. 

"Shut up, Ron, if you ever want to get laid again."

There was a rustling of clothing so close they could hear it and Finch instinctively leaned back further into him, obviously worried one of the Dowmans was about to open the door but they had other things on their minds. 

"I'll get the strap-on, you get the lube."

It looked like they were going to be stuck in the closet for a while. It was too warm with Finch pressed up against him but at least there didn't appear to be any immediate threat to Finch unless Anthea was planning to use the strap-on as a club. Whatever might happen, he knew he'd protect Finch before anyone else, including her. His childhood had been lousy, his time with the CIA past endurance and he'd do anything necessary to protect the only person he totally trusted, his only friend, the only one he—

The Dowmans were really getting into it, Ron's groans, the slap of flesh against flesh, Anthea yelling he should take it like a man.

—Finch's hair was a lot softer than he'd thought it would be as it brushed against his throat and he caught traces of Finch's Clive Christian cologne every time he breathed in. He'd thought him affected at first in his bespoke finery but somewhere along the line he'd learned to appreciate his sense of style, his sly smile, expressive eyebrows and very blue eyes. As Finch shifted, probably to take some pressure off his bad leg, Finch's surprisingly firm ass pushed against him. 

Fuck! He had an erection. It had to just be the friction and the sound of the Dormans going at it. Finch quickly leaned away from him again which was just embarrassing as hell. 

"What are you... doing... Anthea? Anth—"

As Ron's voice trailed off in a pained gurgle, Finch threw the door open and he almost fell before quickly regaining his footing and following Finch who had hold around Anthea's shoulders while she was still buried in Ron's ass and was pulling a thin rope tighter around his throat. John chopped down on her forearms, making her drop the rope before helping to pull her off her husband. If anyone had ever told him he'd be helping Finch to wrestle a strap-on wearing woman to the ground he'd have never believed them. By the time they got her under control, Ron was sitting up against the headboard, his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking. 

"Don't let her go, please! This time I think she was really going to kill me."

It took fifteen minutes for Fusco to arrive by which time he had Anthea secured with handcuffs and Finch had led Ron out into the living room after he'd got him to put a robe on. 

"It's domestic violence, Fusco."

"Then why did you handcuff—"

"She was beating him but today she'd decided to take it even further and murder him. This time I think he'll even testify against her."

"You give me all the best cases, Suit."

In the car headed back to the library, he couldn't decide whether to bring up his erection or not. He never wanted to think about it again and couldn't imagine in which universe Finch would want to either. He'd just keep it to himself. 

"About getting a hard-on—" So much for that plan. 

"No need to explain, Mr. Reese. What with the mental images coming from the Dowman's bedroom—"

"And my having been through a dry spell."

"I didn't know that. I'd assumed you and Zoe— so that really does explains that."

They drove the rest of the way in silence. He barely resisted asking Finch if it had affected him the same way but no matter their friendship and the trust they'd developed that still seemed like crossing a line. 

In the days that followed, John tried to put it out of his mind. It had been embarrassing but Finch had been understanding... too understanding like he'd never think— The problem with putting it out of his mind was he started noticing Finch in a way he hadn't consciously before. The vulnerable strip of skin between his hair and shirt collar, the way his fingers flew lightly over the keyboard and, again, just how good he smelled all the time. The way Finch's crooked smile spread all the way to his very blue eyes. He went out of his way to try to make Finch smile more. He'd decided this new awareness was just a sign of deepening friendship but then he'd come into the library to see Finch on his hands and knees under his computer desk and had felt himself hardening again at the sight of his ass. 

He'd shared a couple of hand jobs with other soldiers when isolated out in the field and miserable, even fucked one a time or two, but had just put it down to the circumstances. They were a lot more isolated than anything he'd endured in the war even though they were in the middle of New York. It hadn't meant anything then and of course it didn't mean anything now. He would just call Zoe or take one of his rare free evenings and go out to a bar and pick someone up. That was all he needed and having met Grace and knowing the size of the torch Harold was carrying for her nothing else was going to be an option anyway. Not that he wanted any options because it didn't mean anything. 

He never called Zoe or went out to a bar looking to hook-up. He'd told himself he was too busy, that he wasn't a good enough liar not to give himself away, that he'd be putting Finch at risk. He was okay, they were okay, everything was okay.

*

The night Jordan Hester doped Finch with Ecstasy, he'd finally got him back to the library safe and sound, handed him some water and a blanket and prepared to leave him to the couch.

"Ask me anything."

It had been tempting but he'd have been cheating at the game they'd been playing. Still, Finch had smiled at him like he was the best thing he'd ever seen and he'd turned away reluctantly.

"John, could you come back here for a moment? I need help."

When he got close, Finch dropped the blanket and grabbed his lapels, pressing his lips against his. He tried to step back but Finch didn't let go, running his hands up the sides of his throat, stroking lightly with his thumbs, making him catch his breath at the sensation before pulling him slowly back in again. He'd planned to ease Harold back, not wanting him to feel rejected, but instead he'd gone all too willingly, wrapping his arms across his back, holding on just as tightly as he was. Harold's lips were thin but surprisingly soft, the faint scratch of stubble a strange new sensation but not a bad one. He'd fucked a man before but he'd never kissed one, something far too intimate for stress relief and now this intimacy threatened to overwhelm him. He lowered his head, taking the strain off Harold's neck and his knees almost buckled as Harold's mouth opened under his, lost to the sensation, all too aware of all the places their bodies were touching. 

"Oh, John." Harold dropped his mouth to his neck, nipping and then soothing the bites with his tongue as John's hands moved of their own volition to grip the ass he'd been trying not to stare at for weeks. 

Harold's hands lowered to John's belt, making short work of it, before starting in on his zip, his hand slipping to caress John through his pants. He had never wanted anything so much in his entire life, bending over the desk or the couch arm and giving himself to Harold— the couch, Harold was supposed to be sleeping off the Ecstasy and here he was, taking advantage of him when he wasn't in his right mind. He caught hold of Harold's hands and moved him gently back away from him. 

"Aww, c'mon, Nathan."

John dropped his arms. Finch had only kissed him because he'd thought he was Nathan. He picked up the blanket and shoved it back into Finch's arms. 

"Good night, Harold."

He sat up in the library for the rest of the night, keeping an eye on Finch who'd finally passed out on the couch. Why had he let Finch kiss him? Why had he kissed him back? Like he'd told Finch, it had been a long time for him. It was never good when he started lying to himself. 

Finch had obviously had sex with Nathan but he'd never made a move on John so obviously he didn't think he was interested.

He understood he was attractive, had even used it as a weapon when necessary, but he laughed at his own arrogance in assuming Finch would have propositioned him if he'd believed him to be available. After all, Finch knew more about him than anyone so why in hell would he ever be interested in John in that way? Friendship yes, but lo— Sex? Why would Finch want to have sex with him? It was miraculous enough that Finch treated him like a friend, even if he did still keep secrets from him. So why did it bother him so much? 

Two hours later of staring into space, perfectly still in a way he'd only been when working as a sniper, the penny dropped. He loved Finch. No, he was in love with Harold Finch and he was completely fucked. What was he going to say if Finch brought it up?

Finch didn't bring it up. He groaned his way off the couch in the morning, gratefully accepting the water he handed to him. He was fuzzy on the details and didn't really remember anything much after asking if Fusco wanted to hack the pentagon. John tried not to be jealous that Harold hadn't asked him. He was sure if Finch had remembered kissing him he'd have apologized and blamed it on the drugs, so things could return to normal. 

And things had reverted to normal or as normal as their life could be so he'd tried to set the whole thing aside. If Finch could live without Nathan and Grace then he could live without Jessica and Finch. Only thing was, Finch didn't have to be in Grace's company all the time. 

*

He wasn't getting out of the basement alive despite his luck in surviving so many of them before. It was never luxury hotel suites except the one time he'd woken up zip tied to a bed by Finch. Well, Finch's men but he'd remember it the way he wanted to. 

They'd beaten the shit out of him and left him to die in an abandoned building. He didn't deserve any better, given the life he'd lived, the people he'd killed. Among a myriad of regrets, the one he felt most was that he'd parted with Harold on bad terms. They'd quarreled over John killing the hit man Buddy Taylor had sent after Harold Tern, when he'd figured out Tern had done more than fix his computer. John had done it without a moment's hesitation and would do it again but remembering the expression on Harold's face, the disappointment, the disgust, hurt more than his current injuries did. Still, when he'd reached the logical conclusion that Taylor had to die as well to make certain Harold was safe, he hadn't hesitated. With everything Harold already knew about him it wasn't like he could be anymore disgusted. 

He'd told Harold he was going home, ditched his phone and earpiece and headed downtown to find Taylor. It hadn't been difficult but he'd been surprised by the number of men Taylor had with him. It had taken four of them to take him and drag him down the concrete basement stairs and beat him senseless. 

He'd assumed they'd kill him then but Taylor had other ideas. "The building's deserted and no one's ever coming down here. Leave the bastard to die slowly."

So that's what he'd been doing, dying slowly. He'd dragged himself across the room to the foot of the stairs but had exhausted what little energy he'd had left in the process. He was too damaged to make it back up the stairs, so dying slowly it was. It was a tossup if dehydration or the rats would get him first but then it was always good to have options. 

"Mr. Reese? Are you down here?"

It was pretty good as hallucinations went. 

"John!"

"Harold?"

The basement lights flipped on, leaving him squinting. 

"John." Harold's hands moving over him were the best thing he'd ever felt at least until he put pressure on his ribs. His gasp of pain was enough to make Harold pull away quickly. 

"I'm sorry." Harold got his phone out of his pocket. "I'll call an ambulance and—"

"No ambulance."

"But, John—"

"Not as bad as it looks. Just beaten up."

" _Just?_ " 

"Just can't make it up the stairs without help."

"If we can get you up on your feet—"

"No. Call Fusco."

Harold called Fusco to tell him where they were and hung up. "He can't get here for 30 minutes at least. Are you sure I shouldn't call the ambulance?"

"Sure." His teeth chattered. 

"You're cold." Harold took off his overcoat, ignoring John's feeble protestations and draped it over him. Then he maneuvered down awkwardly to sit against the wall. "Can I raise your head without hurting you?"

"Made it across the room."

Harold pulled and he pushed slightly and ended up with his upper body cradled in Harold's lap, Harold pulling his overcoat up even more over him. 

"Is this better?"

It was heaven. "Not bad."

He was slipping away again when Harold cupped the back of his head. "Try to stay awake, John. I'm not sure if you've got a concussion."

He knew he didn't from long experience, but he wasn't going to protest when Harold's fingers were very gently petting his hair. He thought Harold was checking for bumps but his fingers continued in the same gentle caresses, as his face lay against the soft wool of Harold's pants. He moved slightly so he could look at Harold through the eye that wasn't nearly swollen shut and got a worried smile for his trouble. 

Harold's face was so open, so unguarded, so vulnerable— "If I'd known what it would take to get you to hold me, I'd have got beaten before." 

Harold's eyes went wide in shock and his fingers stopped moving. 

He shouldn't have said that, Harold shouldn't have to deal with his unwanted feelings. "Just trying to lighten the mood, Finch."

Harold smiled fondly at him and his caresses resumed, fingers working gently through his hair, smoothing it back from his face and then running down to caress the back of his neck. He hummed in appreciation and Harold kept going. 

"Why did you come here alone, John?" Harold's hand moved again to cup the back of his head, fingers still gently flexing. 

"You know why." He looked at Harold's vest so he wouldn't have to see the disappointment on his face. "I told The Machine and I'm telling you too that I won't go on without you. Taylor wanted you dead so he had to go."

"But The Machine—"

"Fuck The Machine. I lost Jessica, I'm not losing you too."

The fingers in his hair stopped moving. "John, I have to tell—"

"Hey, Glasses!" Fusco came clattering down the stairs. "How's Tall, Dark and Deranged?"

Fusco was surprisingly gentle as he helped him to his feet though he swayed slightly into Finch, putting a hand on his shoulder so as not to fall down. Finch gasped in pain as his fingers came away bloody. 

"Harold?"

"It's nothing." Harold pulled out his pocket square and shoved it under the neckline of his purple shirt. "Just a crease."

He wanted to say more but Fusco had got a good grip on him and it took every ounce of concentration to make it up the stairs without making them all fall down them again. Lying on the floor in the middle of room upstairs was one of Taylor's men, shot through the chest. Fusco led him round the body and out onto the street, helping him into the back of Finch's car where he could stretch out, before getting into the passenger seat. 

He should thank Fusco. "I hope you used your throwaway gun, Fusco."

"Don't look at me, I didn't shoot him."

He drifted off wondering if Fusco didn't, who did?

They'd woke him up in getting him out of the car and into the building and Dr. Tillman had come to check on him, despite him trying to insist on her tending to Finch first. With no sign of concussion, Finch had let him sleep. 

When he'd woke up in the safe house the next morning, feeling like he'd been run over by a truck, he'd looked closely at the bottle of pain pills next to his bed and taken half the recommended dose before climbing gingerly out of bed and going to sit on the couch which felt like such a great accomplishment he knew he'd been lucky to get away with no permanent injuries. 

Finch appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. "Are you sure you should be up, Mr. Reese?"

"Certain." He'd hoped for a while longer before having to explain himself to Finch but he'd have to go with convenient amnesia.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Water would be good."

Finch came to sit on the couch next to him with a mug of green tea and a bottle of water for him. He put the tea down on the table and leaned back into the couch, wincing a little as his shoulder connected with the cushions. 

"Why didn't you tell me you were wounded, Finch?"

"Just winged."

"But it must have hurt to hold me."

"It was my pleasure." Finch flushed a lovely shade of pink and he wanted to kiss him but he didn't. 

"Pleasure?" He must be a fool, trying to read anything into that. 

"You were in so much pain and any comfort— holding you was more important than anything else."

Harold was seated so close all he'd have to do was lean forward to kiss him but he still didn't. He needed to change the conversation and fast.

"What happened to Taylor's man?"

"He got shot." Harold was looking somewhere over his shoulder.

"How?"

"As you probably already know, with a gun."

"Harold." He couldn't resist turning just a little more toward him. 

"He shot me and grazed my shoulder. I was just trying to injure him but I'm not a good shot."

Harold had killed someone to save his life. "You shouldn't have. Not for me."

"I like to avoid violence if at all possible. But, if they harm you, in any way, I'm willing to kill them all." Finch, who had always been braver where it really counted, took his hand. "I'm not losing you either, John."

He finally gave in to the impulse and kissed him. They should really talk. He should find a way to tell Harold how much he loved him. 

"When we're healed up, I've got some desk work for us to do." 

After all, It wasn't like Harold didn't already know.


End file.
